


Rocks on the Road

by Thesseli



Series: Prodigies [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Crossover, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Earth-Warders, F/M, M/M, Nephilim, Post-Episode s01e18 Scheherezade, Post-Episode: s01e16 The Job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26977102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesseli/pseuds/Thesseli
Summary: The forces of Heaven and Hell are getting closer, Anathema worries, and Dr. Whitly gets another hint or three that things may not be what they appear.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Prodigies [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1606876
Comments: 20
Kudos: 43





	1. The Empty Child

If there was one thing Hastur was good at, it was lurking.

He and Ligur – they’d always been masters of the art. So it only made sense that Beelzebub had put them back on duty, trying to work out why the Others were expending so much magical energy, and why it had led them to New York. Both Heaven and Hell were very concerned; who could even guess what the traitors were doing? Demons weren’t terribly imaginative (and neither were angels, to be honest). No-one could fathom why Aziraphale and Crowley were doing so much in the astral realm, any more than they understood why Ligur had been brought back from oblivion after Armageddon hadn’t happened. 

The heavy cascade of an astral disturbance was what had brought Hastur to this place. Odd, but he could not sense any fellow celestials, demon or angel. Mortal, he thought to himself as he surveyed his location. There was a human man sleeping on a cot in what appeared to be a locked room. He’d entered through the floor rather than the cell door; and he moved silently, still hidden in the shadows, approaching the man who was at the center of the disturbance.

What he saw would have made him gasp, if he’d needed to breathe.

A human phrase went through his head. ‘Dead ringer’. The man on the cot was a dead ringer for the traitor to Heaven. The hair was different, and maybe he looked a few years older, but otherwise the resemblance was uncanny. 

The astral disturbance ended. The being on the bed stirred, eyes opening and sitting up slowly. And then he turned directly towards Hastur.

“I know you’re here,” the man hissed. “I can see you.”


	2. Flatline

Surprised, but determined not to show it, Hastur stepped forward into the cell’s dim light. He let his more demonic aspects become visible. The human just regarded him curiously. The human? No.

“What are you?” Hastur grated out. Humans screamed when they saw this form, plus a human wouldn’t have been able to see him when he’d first entered the cell. The demon moved closer, and he could sense what felt like a magical wall around the other being. He could tell that what was behind it was powerful, but as of yet he had no idea what it might be.

“What are *you*?” the man-shaped being challenged back.

Hastur’s lip curled into a snarl. “Your worst nightmare.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” it replied nonchalantly, rising to his feet. “My nightmares are worse than most. And this? This is nothing, really.” 

Hastur blinked, now able to get more of a sense of the being before him. “You’re—“ He was surprised again. “You’re possessing a human. How are you doing that? It was *forbidden* centuries ago!”

The creature’s expression shifted to something slightly less than confident. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You. You’re wearing a human body, but you’re not human. Are you one of us? Or one of *them*? No, their head office wouldn’t permit this either. Are you working with the traitors? What business do they have with you?” he demanded. “What are you planning?!”

“Again, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” it stated. “You should be careful what you say to me in here though. You could be crossing a line.”

Hastur scoffed at the implied threat, but the traitor’s doppelganger just smiled and pointed down at the floor. The demon turned, and raised an eyebrow. There was an actual line painted there.

“I think you should leave now.”

Hastur borrowed a phrase he’d once heard from Warlock Dowling. “I’d like to see you make me.”

“I will.” The prisoner’s smile broadened and it stepped up so he was standing right in front of Hastur. “My dream, my rules.”

The demon scowled. “This isn’t a –“

Hastur never got the chance to finish his sentence, but he did realize in that moment just what the line on the floor was there for.


	3. The Beast Below

“What wasz it?” asked Beelzebub again, lacking the patience to deal with the frazzled duke who’d just been unceremoniously deposited back in Hell. 

“I. Don’t. Know,” he replied, for what felt like the hundredth time. “I couldn’t see past its protective field. But even the humans know it’s dangerous – why else would they be keeping it locked up, and chained to a wall to boot?”

The prince wanted to be sure of all the details before speaking of this with anyone else. “And it looked like the angelz’ traitor?”

“Almost exactly like him. On the outside, anyway; couldn’t see what was inside. It’s hidden itself in a human body, but it’s definitely not human.”

“And it’z this body that lookz like the angel?”

“Yes.”

“How is that even possible?” said Ligur, who’d been at Hastur’s side from the moment he returned to Hell. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s done it, but I do remember possession can’t alter a mortal’s features like that.”

“Well, zince we don’t know what kind of creature we’re dealing with, it will be best to tread carefully until we gather more information.”

“You don’t think we should go to…him…about all this?” Ligur asked hesitantly. 

Beelzebub glowered at the other two demons. “Lord Lucifer remainz…unavailable.” The expression on the prince’s face was one of frustration verging on anger. “And if he refuzes to concern himself with the fate of his kingdom, so be it. We can take care of thizz without him.”

Hastur nodded. “I still want another crack at that thing. This time I won’t underestimate it, now that I know it isn’t human.”

Beelzebub regarded him dubiously. “How exactly did he discorporate you again?”

Hastur’s reply was little more than a snarl. “The bastard snapped my neck.”


	4. The Eleventh Hour

Anathema could feel the twinge of a headache coming on. “I can’t believe you two managed to make the same mistake twice,” she declared, after hearing news of their latest discovery. “The wrong boy? Again?”

“We were following the etheric disturbances,” Aziraphale stated loftily, swirling the wine in his glass. “We just assumed they were coming from our son. How were we to know there would be something else out there powerful enough to be trackable by our magic? Heaven and Hell rarely send anyone to Earth; and even when they do, both sides try to keep miracles to a minimum, so as not to arouse human suspicion.”

“We didn’t expect anyone else to be using celestial magic here,” offered Crowley. He too held a glass of wine in his hand. “We didn’t think anyone else on Earth would be able to, apart from us.”

The witch glared at both the angel and the demon. “All those hits we’ve been getting…you’re absolutely certain now that they were coming from something other than your son.”

“Yes.”

“Something you think is in contact with him.”

“Yes.” Crowley leaned forward in his chair. “The latest signals are always the same. They go on for a little while, but each time it seems like we’re getting close to their source, they suddenly drop down to zero. It’s like when debris gets sucked into a black hole. First there’s a huge flare of energy, and then…nothing.”

“It sounds like whatever’s protecting your son is also protecting this other being any time it gets close to him,” said Newt, rubbing his chin. “Interesting.” 

Anathema grumbled. In her estimation, there was still too much they didn’t know, and these two celestial idiots wanted to go charging in – in the physical world no less – blindly, without any more astral surveillance beforehand. It was maddening. If they ended up discorporated, she doubted their head offices would be willing to issue them material bodies again. And where would that leave them? What would happen then?

“See? Everything still worked out,” Crowley said to her, patting her hand and smiling. “The wrong boy led us to the right boy.”

“And just as your son is not a boy, neither is whatever you’ve been following,” she reminded him. “We have no idea what it is. What if it’s some kind of demonic minion, or a spirit elemental, or some other creature hostile to humans and yourselves? What if your son created some kind of astral servitor or tulpa to defend himself with? What if there are more of them?”

”Well…I suppose we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Aziraphale. “But for now, I think this latest success calls for more wine.”

Anathema rubbed her forehead. Oh yes, she could definitely feel a headache coming on, and she wondered yet again what might have happened had the pair of celestial beings been even slightly more competent.


	5. The Doctor Falls

“If you love her, stop her.” That was what his father had said before Eve left. But he hadn’t, and now she was gone.

Dr. Whitly still steadfastly refused to tell him anything more…about Sophie Sanders, or the dangerous man she was running from, or anything else even remotely useful. It was frustrating, but Malcolm Bright was never one to give up. He told himself he would eventually learn more. His father loved the sound of his own voice, and Malcolm was certain he could get the older man to reveal further details with time. For now, he would have to be content with the fact that the Surgeon had revealed *any* part of the truth at all.

And he had. Malcolm knew his father had been truthful when he said he’d let Sophie Sanders go. He was thankful for that, but it hurt that Eve had gone off on her search alone. What didn’t hurt, however, was the knowledge that his father had kept all this from him to protect him. (Malcolm could sense this was another point of honesty.) Or that he’d manipulated his father into telling him what little he had. Malcolm was pleased with his deductive and profiling skills, and for something this important, he wasn’t going to feel guilty about a little manipulation. Not at all.

Not that his subconscious would acknowledge it, though. Malcolm’s nightmares had gotten worse, his father making even more frequent appearances in them. They were usually set in the psychiatric hospital, but with a deep foreboding dread always at their periphery. They were not the memory-dreams that used to play out in Malcolm’s sleep, but they were equally realistic, with that faint twinge of something unnatural and alien at their outskirts.

This time, Malcolm found himself at Claremont once again. The last thing he recalled before he must have fallen asleep was a sky full of gathering clouds; by now there would have been a full-fledged storm going on, and he wasn’t surprised it had followed him into his dream. The horror movie elements that were usually just at the edge of his perception felt closer now. He supposed the flickering lights and the generally spooky atmosphere of the hospital had a hand in that, and he couldn’t help but think back to the time Ainsley conducted her interview here with their father. 

Malcolm wandered down the darkened corridor towards Dr. Whitly’s cell. He recognized the hallway was darker than it should have been; even in lockdown there had been emergency lights provided by the site’s backup generator. The only real light seemed to be coming from the cell itself, with occasional flares interspersed with the much fainter background illumination. He was thankful he wasn’t in total darkness. There were noises from up ahead too, sounds Malcolm couldn’t make out. 

//This is all a dream,// Malcolm told himself firmly, and with that thought in mind he walked right up to the door of Dr. Whitly’s cell. It should have been locked, but the mechanism clicked into the open position as soon as Malcolm pressed it. ‘My dream, my rules’ his father had said in one of his previous nightmares. //Handy.// He hoped this dream might offer some insight, or help him catch something he’d missed before.

With the storm raging outside, and with as much confidence as he could muster, Malcolm pushed open the door to the cell. He didn’t get more than a foot inside before he stopped in his tracks. He had the same sense of unease as in his prior dreams of being watched and hunted, but this time the unnatural attention was focused not on himself, but on Martin Whitly instead. 

His father was huddled on the cot, pressed back against the wall, gazing up in terror at something Malcolm couldn’t make out in the mostly-dark room. He looked more frightened than Malcolm had ever seen him. There were dim shapes around him, doing…something…to him, making flashes of light appear on his skin that disappeared back into his body soon after.

Malcolm stepped forward. “What’s—“

This did seem to break through the older man’s paralysis, and he tore his eyes from whatever he was seeing to look towards his son. “Malcolm, run!” he urged. There was a look of blind panic on his face, and his eyes had an oddly reflective, gleaming quality to them. “Run!”

In an instant, the creatures’ attention was on him. This close he could tell there were two of them and that they were definitely not human – the shadowy horrors that had stalked his dreams were here, right in front of him. His brain told his legs to move, but he was frozen.

Then there was a crack of lightning from outside, and Malcolm got his first clear look at what had been following him all this time. One was monstrous and reptilian with far too many teeth; the other, a thing with a thousand eyes. 

There was a brief moment of absolute and utter silence, quickly broken by a resonating voice that shook him down to his bones. “Be not afraid,” the second creature intoned.

Malcolm woke up screaming.


	6. Sleep No More

Malcolm was out of the bed and halfway across the room before the sound of his phone brought him back to reality. He looked around wildly, half expecting the Lovecraftian horrors to have followed him – but no, he was in his apartment, and he was alone. He rubbed his eyes. The sky was still dark; what time was it?

Still trying to get his bearings, he took a deep breath to steady himself before looking at the phone. Claremont? This early in the morning? He knew his father’s phone privileges didn’t extend outside the facility’s normal hours, and he had no idea why anyone else from there would be calling him.

“Hello?” he said, and was instantly on guard when he heard the voice at the other end of the line. It was not his father, but Mr. David. 

“Malcolm…I know it’s very early, but do you think you could come down here?” he asked hesitantly. “Your father’s been taken to the medical ward.” 

The profiler was fully awake now. “What? What happened?”

There was a brief pause. “To tell you the truth, Malcolm, we’re not sure. He’s had some kind of breakdown…or breakthrough. Nobody knows yet. He’s sedated now, and they’re still running tests, but he was asking for you.”

He frowned. “All right. I’ll be right over.”

“I’ll tell the front desk to expect you.”

The drive to the psychiatric hospital was mercifully brief, and it was a good distraction from the lingering memories of the dream. Because that was all it was – a dream, albeit a very disturbing one. Once he was buzzed in, he told himself calmly and firmly that he was in the normal waking world, in a normal place on a normal day…

In a normal hospital for the criminally insane, where his serial killer father was locked up so he couldn’t hurt anyone else.

Mr. David met him at the reception area. “I’m glad you could make it,” he said, ushering the younger man through the halls. 

“What do the doctors think happened to him? Do they know any more than when we talked earlier?” Malcolm asked.

“Well, they’ve been able to rule out a stroke, a heart attack, a hypoxic event, even a lightning strike.” He shook his head. “There was speculation for a little while that might have been it, given how bad last night’s storm was and how close his cot is to the wall. They thought a bolt might have been channeled through the wiring and then jumped to him, but there was no sign of electrocution when he was examined.” He paused when they were outside the door to the medical ward. There were two security officers posted there. “Physically, there’s nothing wrong with him. Mentally, well…you’ll have to see for yourself.”

Malcolm nodded, then followed him inside. 

There were two more security guards in the room, keeping a close eye on both the medical personnel and their patient, but Malcolm doubted his father would be much of a problem in here. Aside from being handcuffed to the bed, he also appeared to be heavily medicated. 

“How’s he doing?” he asked softly. Seeing his father like this brought back memories of when he’d been in a coma…the coma Malcolm had put him in. It wasn’t pleasant.

“He was in some kind of a manic state when he woke up,” said one of the nurses. “Yelling, crying, laughing. Which is very odd, because Dr. Whitly’s never shown that type of behavior before.”

The man on the bed opened his eyes blearily. They were red-rimmed, but for the moment, strangely tranquil. “It wasn’t a manic state. It was euphoria. Don’t you people know the difference? And you call yourselves medical professionals,” he chuckled, but there was no real malice in his voice.

“Martin, you have a visitor,” said Mr. David. “Your son is here.”

Dr. Whitly turned his head towards them and his expression immediately brightened. “Malcolm! My boy!” He broke into a wide smile, and the profiler wondered just what combination of drugs his father had been given. Instead of having the aura of a dangerous predator waiting for a moment to strike, the older man actually seemed…relaxed. At peace. 

//Happy?//

“How are you feeling?” Malcolm asked. He felt a bit out of his depth.

His father sighed and leaned back in the bed, looking strangely content. “Better than I have in my entire life. Thank you for coming, I have so many things to tell you, but I can’t…I just can’t put them into words right now. Too much ‘medicine’.” He glanced at the IV line in his arm ruefully. ”But one thing I need to say is this, Malcolm: Ainsley was right.”

“She was right?” he asked. That had certainly come out of the blue. “About what?”

“About what I did to you,” he said quietly. “What I put you through growing up, and ever since then. I hurt you, Malcolm. I hurt you very badly, and I’m sorry. I never would have done it, if I’d been in my right mind.”

Malcolm blinked. “What’s in this IV again?” He never thought he would hear his father say anything like this, never thought he would apologize, never thought he would ever be *remorseful*, about anything.

The older man laughed, sounding almost drunk. “It’s not the drugs, although I must admit, they’re helping.” He leaned forward in a conspiratory manner. “Come on, you were there, you saw what happened last night during the storm. It was them, they did it.”

Malcolm suddenly felt cold all over. “I don’t know what you mean,” he stated emphatically.

The older man fixed his half-drunken gaze on his son. “Malcolm, you’ve been wandering, during those rare occasions when you actually sleep. I’ve seen you multiple times, including last night. And you saw *them*, when they were splitting my head wide open,” he declared. “I told you to run. But now that I know what I do, I realize I shouldn’t have. Because they can help you too.”

Mr. David stepped in at that. “Martin, you shouldn’t be letting your imagination run away with you like this,” he said, watching as a nurse gave the strapped-down patient another dose of the sedative. “Maybe you should get going, Malcolm. I’ll keep you informed about his condition. For now, you can probably go home. Catch a few more hours of sleep.”

Malcolm grimaced at the thought of more sleep, then turned to Mr. David. He was *not* going to consider the implications of what his father had said just yet – because if he did, it would mean all the strangeness he’d been experiencing all this time might be real, and there was no way he could accept that. Not now, not ever. “Keep me posted, ok?”

“You got it.”

“I’ll be fine, Malcolm,” Dr. Whitly promised. “Better than fine. They helped me, and they’ll help you too. I’ll send them.”

Malcolm was sure he didn’t want to know, but he needed to ask. “Send who? Exactly who or what are 'they'?”

Dr. Whitly’s eyebrow quirked up, and he smiled with a bit of his usual slyness. “The weeping angel, and the gardener of Eden.” 

Mr. David watched as the profiler hurriedly exited through the guarded door, and then glanced back at Martin. “The weeping angel and the gardener of Eden?” he repeated dubiously.

Dr. Whitly nodded, his brow furrowing as the new dose of sedatives began to hit him. “Now that I think about it,” he mused thoughtfully, “I probably should have told Malcolm that I gave them his home address.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Wonder who you're talking with tonight, Talking with tonight. Who you talking with tonight?" -- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7YqlEjdBLvI


End file.
